Pole-jumping.

I believe this will probably be the longest you'll ever see my hair.

 Jacket: thrifted.  Scarf:  thrifted.  Mr. Sparkle Simpsons shirt:  thrifted.  Jeans:  NY&Co.  Shoes:  Pink Duchess.

A friend of mine is a newly-certified life coach and I am lucky enough to be one of his first guinea pigs clients. I told him the story of how my Sweets and I were waiting around at the airport when we spied a couple of poles about crotch-high.  "Bet you could jump over that," he challenged.

 Ring:  3 Monkeys, Portland.  I'm not really a flower-loving type, but could not resist this giant acrylic bloom with its rhinestone center.

I usually take challenges quite gamely, so I proceeded to try and jump over the pole by vaulting off the top of it with my hands and swinging my legs around it.  At every attempt, though, I caught myself in mid-air with my feet glued to the sides of the pole, looking very frog-legged.  "C'mon, you can jump over it, just do it," he encouraged, so I kept trying to do it, and each time catching myself before I actually cleared it.  I had visions of splitting my chin on the concrete or giving myself a new asshole that even Goatse would envy.

 Boys love this shirt.  One swooped down on me to let me know that the Japanese on it is actually slightly incorrect.  I told him his approach was incorrect.

Finally, on my last try, I swung my leg around and smashed it into the pole, giving myself a soft-ball sized bruise.  I marched off to the benches and sat down in a huff, knowing that I would look at that bruise for the next couple of weeks and regard it as proof that I suck at life.  Yes, I know, these are the things that go through my mind at 2 a.m., fresh off a flight, on a head full of Tylenol P.M.

But Still.

I relayed this story to this certain life coach, and we decided that I should forever renounce trying to meet goals that aren't important to me.  I didn't really care about clearing the pole, I just wanted to live up to my Sweets' challenge.  And so, as my first act, I think I'm going to cut my hair.  I've only been growing it out because the media (and my mother) insist that you really aren't going full-bore female without having super-long hair.

But the fact of the matter is, long hair makes me feel like I'm hiding.  It feels heavy, humid, boring and spaniel-ish.  It hangs and does nothing (or everything) if one doesn't employ a variety of creams, balms and devices.  And anyone that has ever cut my hair knows how I hate devices.  Messing with your hair's natural texture makes baby Jesus sad.

So, like I said, this may be the last time you see me with hair this long.

This may also be the first and last time you see my new keychain aka "The Bling Duck" as advertised in the gas station-- but only because I don't make a habit of photographing my keys.

But don't you just love him??

Yours,

Elissa.